


Ah im, u-'erin veleth lin?

by elrondhalfelven



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Beginning of Third Age, Elrond had a sad life, Family, First Age, Grief/Mourning, Heartache, Hurt No Comfort, I just love Elrond and think he deserves much better, Injury, Poor Elrond, Second Age, Sirion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29109549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrondhalfelven/pseuds/elrondhalfelven
Summary: Elrond has come to know that to give his love to another is to resign himself to an eventual bitter parting."There is nothing for you here, only death. Ah im, u-'erin veleth lin?" -Elrond, The Lord of The Rings: The Two Towers.
Relationships: Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond Peredhel & Elwing, Elrond Peredhel & Ereinion Gil-galad, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Elrond has been my absolute favourite character ever since I was little, and his tale is truly such a sad one that so often gets overshadowed or forgotten. Thus, I have written my own small contribution to changing that!  
> Elrond's age in each event I have taken from the date of each occurrence in relation to the date of Elrond's birth, FA 532. 
> 
> See end notes for Sindarin translations.

Elrond had become acquainted with grief younger than most.

It had begun before he even knew the meaning of loss, a babe in his Naneth's arms. He had watched the high sail of his Adar's ship disappear over the horizon line, his Adar fading away with it, never once turning back to wave to Elrond in farewell. He had felt the salty teardrop of his Naneth fall from her face to land upon his own cheek, had observed knowingly as her eyelids fluttered closed in a silent prayer. It had seemed to Elrond then that all of Sirion had smelt like tears, and an overwhelming sense of sadness that he could not comprehend had clutched uncomfortably at his tiny heart. Scrunching up his nose and balling his fists, he had opened his mouth and cried unceasingly until his throat was raw and his Naneth's milk was at his lips.

ooooooooo

Ithil was still high in the sky when the attack came.

None had expected it, but the men among they who abode in the town (fisherfolk and refugees, not warriors) had been quick to prepare themselves for the assault that was to come, with the small warning that they had been allowed. Elrond's Naneth had come rushing into the rooms that he shared with his twin brother, planting a watery kiss on each of her son's cheeks in turn and whispering implausible assurances and promises of love. Then she had taken Elrond into one arm and Elros into the other, giving to each one last kiss, one final farewell, before passing them both to an unfamiliar ellon who would later introduce himself as Erestor. There was no time for such pleasantries now.

The last Elrond saw of his Naneth was of her pale silk robe disappearing around the corner as she fled the room and ran up a narrow staircase and to the left, making hurriedly for the high attic room overlooking the sea. The same room from which he had watched his Adar leave.

The ellon entrusted with his and his brother's care had taken them in haste down the opposite corridor to the stairs, bringing them into the large playroom that Elrond and his twin shared. Their toys were scattered aimlessly about the floor, the bay window in the furthermost corner of the room slightly ajar, and drifting to their noses through it was the distinctive smell of salt and fishmongers markets that Elrond had come to know as the smell of home. Everything had seemed so normal then, so unlike his Naneth's peculiar behaviour mere moments ago, that he had scrambled to be free of the ellon's grasp and made determinedly for his toys in an effort to dismiss from his mind the unsettling feeling of nervous foreboding that had arisen with his Naneth's actions. Instead, the impertinent ellon had taken one long stride and caught him with an unexpected gentleness by the hand, picking up as he did so the toy otter that Elrond had been making for. Elrond's lip trembled in discomfort- his Naneth always allowed them playtime when they awoke- but the ellon had simply led him back towards the side of the room nearest to the door where an ancient oak closet stood, opening the door and guiding them inside with an encouraging smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Elrond felt himself trembling even more. This was definitely not a normal occurrence.

"You must stay in here until I tell you it is safe to leave. You must be quiet. Under no circumstance will you make a sound. Do you understand?" the ellon said not unkindly, though his tone left no room for debate.

Elrond nodded shakily in affirmation of his understanding. His brother next to him did the same.

"Good." The ellon handed Elrond the toy otter he had forgotten about completely, giving to Elros a similar toy- this one a turtle- before shutting the closet door in front of the two trembling Peredhil. Only then had Elrond realised that it was awfully dark in the closet, and he did not like to be in the dark; his Naneth had allowed him to sleep with a candle burning until she herself was preparing for bed, coming in to softly blow out the light once he was no longer awake to fear the black of night. His entire body was trembling in fright, but the ellon had told him not to make a noise and so instead of succumbing to the sobs that threatened to take him he instead wrapped his arms around his also quivering brother, holding him close, the toy otter resting on his chest. Sirion had held its breath with them, the only sound to be heard the rolling of the waves upon the shore. For what seemed like an age and must have only been moments everything was still with dreaded anticipation, warrior and child alike waiting in the darkness...

On a sudden, the sound of horses' hooves thundering down from the North was carried to them on the wind, swiftly followed by the roar of a horn; a declaration of war. Despite himself, Elrond gave a whimper of terror, his brother answering in kind. Before long the harsh clang of sword meeting sword and distinctive ping of bowstrings being drawn was sent ringing through the air of their homeland, with piercing shrieks of terror and fearsome cries occasionally drowning out all else. Elrond was utterly inconsolable in his devastation now, the tears flowing freely, and he planted wet kisses in plenty on his brother's head as they held each other tighter. He could hear from without the ellon his Naneth had provided- _his_ Naneth, out there with the shouting and the swords; would she be hiding in a closet too? Elrond wondered- pacing about the wooden floor. After some time- whether that be a day or a minute, Elrond could not tell- the raucous seemed to grow quieter, the battle gradually drawing to an end. Elrond was just about to open the cupboard door slightly to determine whether or not it was safe to come out, to find his Naneth- when he heard from below the sound of the outside door lock being fiddled with, as though someone was trying to find their way in. The ellon abruptly ceased his pacing.

Trembling fingers reached for Elrond’s hand, and he turned to see his twin, still enfolded in his embrace, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. Weakly, he squeezed his brother’s hand. All would be well, he told himself, trying ardently to believe the promise that his Naneth had made to them before she fled. Someone had entered the house now, heavy footfalls hastening up the staircase. Elrond squeezed his eyes shut against the horrible sense of foreboding that had risen in his chest. The footsteps did not falter as they drew closer to the playroom, rushing past their hiding place completely, making in haste for the narrow staircase to the attic. Elrond heard from above them the muffled sound of lighter footfalls swiftly crossing the length of the floor to the window. A voice that would have been beautiful but for the distress in its tone spoke then, in a tongue that Elrond could not understand. He strained his ear to hear the creaking sound of the old attic window being flung open. The voice grew desperate. Elrond heard the unfamiliar footfalls take a cautious step towards the direction of the window, even as he heard the ellon keeping watch over them outside of the closet gasp softly as something- Elrond knew not what- fell upon the surface of the waves beyond the window. Above them, someone dropped to their knees with a thud.

So intent was Elrond on listening to the goings on of the attic- the lighter footfalls had sounded nauseatingly familiar- that he had failed to recognise the presence of a second strange ellon (for that is what they were, if indeed the voice upstairs was anything to go by) within their home until his brother gave an almost inaudible whimper and cradled his toy turtle against his chest. Straining his ear against the oak door, Elrond heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed close by as someone drew nearer to the doorway of their playroom. He heard the ellon protecting them answer in kind, his own sword drawn. There was a very brief battle from without, as the raw sound of sword meeting sword reverberated through the room, before one of the combatants cried aloud in anguish and fell to the floor. Elrond clasped his hand against his mouth with all of the waning power of a distraught six year old to prevent himself from bursting into tears. His brother, it seemed, had no such restraint, and began to sob openly. Horrified, Elrond desperately yanked his own hand from his mouth to restrain his weeping twin, but his efforts were in vain; they had already been heard.

The cupboard door was flung open to reveal a tall, red-haired ellon towering over them. Later, Elrond would berate himself for not taking the opportunity to flee when he had the chance; the armoured ellon had only one hand, and could not have caught both Elrond and Elros try as he might. Yet Elrond’s eyes were fixed on the gentle ellon who had given him his otter lying unconscious on the floor, and his mind was further still behind him, trying fervently to place those footsteps that he knew so very well from the attic....

“He is not dead.” The ellon’s voice was gravelly and commanding, juxtaposing utterly the melodious voice they had heard a few moments ago. Elrond drew away so that his back was against the oak wood behind him, trying in vain to escape the piercing eyes of the red-headed ellon, watching him intently, but not bothering to elaborate further. His sword, still unsheathed and in his hand, was tainted red.

“Oh!” Another ellon, pale and with raven-dark hair had appeared before them, standing slightly behind his taller companion. From his exclamation of surprise a moment ago, Elrond ascertained that he was the same warrior who had been speaking so urgently upstairs. He watched with mounting dread as the ellon dropped to his knees once more.

“Children, do not fear.” He spoke in Sindarin, though his voice held a foreign lilt. “There is no need to hide. Come.” He beckoned, holding his hand out towards them. Elrond shook his head assertively.

“No.” He replied, unsure of where this newly found courage had come from but continuing despite himself. “No. Our Naneth is coming to find us. We will not go with you.” His voice was quivering with unshed tears and his knees weakened at the anger that flashed in the red-haired ellon’s eyes, who looked as though he was about to reprimand Elrond for his impertinence, but was interrupted by his ashen-faced comrade.

“Child, your mother is not coming. She is gone.” The one on his knees glanced almost nervously up at the red-haired ellon by his side. Elrond knew not why.

“She....Elwing, she cast herself into the sea with our Father’s simaril. I am sorry. She is gone” The silvery voice held genuine remorse, but appeared to be appealing more to his brother beside him than to Elrond and his own twin. Even so, Elrond heard his words for what they were; he had always been a child of great perceptiveness, and he knew his naneth’s name from her conversation with various advisors that he had overheard. It could not be true….

Elrond felt rather than heard his brother’s anguished weeping beside him, felt the grief conveyed by his tears resonate within him as akin to his own sorrow. The sudden loss pierced his young heart, still not fully recovered from that first wound, and he longed now more than ever for his Naneth to come rushing through the door in a flurry of silk, to tell him that everything was going to be alright, that he need not shed tears on her expense. Yet she did not come, and the only reassurance that Elrond received was not from her lips but from the mouth of the ellon whom she had run from, as he bundled Elrond up into a blanket and lifted him onto his horse. Elrond and his brother were then ridden off against their will swiftly into the dawn; taken by the Fëanorians and the remnants of their followers, leaving Sirion behind them forever, though Elrond knew not that such was their fate at the time.

Later, he would be told by Erestor, who had refused to part with them upon regaining consciousness, that his Naneth had not perished that day at all; instead she had been borne up by the grace of the Valar and turned into a great white seabird. Certainly, his carer had intended for this knowledge to bring comfort to Elrond, though in truth it did nothing to ease the pain of his aching heart. His Naneth was still gone; neither she nor his Adar would ever return to him. They had both been taken from Elrond by the sea. He closed his storm-grey eyes and allowed one solitary tear to trail without constraint down the length of his cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Though I part ways with you now, the only Atar I have ever known, my love for you does not cease upon this final meeting. I shall remember you when everyone else forgets. Your harp I shall carry with me, until we meet upon the shores in the years that have not yet come to pass. Children of my own I shall have then, and stories in plenty they shall here of my time spent here with you. Until then, Atar, farewell."
> 
> \- Elrond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy my Elrond Peredhel musings, I am also @LordofImladris on instagram and @elrondperedhel on pinterest.

The next farewell had been the worst one yet for Elrond, because he was old enough to understand that it was intended to be forever.

_Or perhaps_ , a small part of him whispered, _because it was the hardest to leave. Because your heart had wanted to stay the most._

He had known that something was going to happen, had felt the tension hanging in the very airs of Amon Ereb. For days now, Elrond had walked the dimly lit halls of the fortress he had long since familiarised himself to with a mounting sense of foreboding that he had come to know as a consequence of his foresight; a gift that had been passed down to him from his Ainur ancestors. In times such as these, Elrond felt that his “talent” was more of a curse.

“Something is the matter. I know I am speaking truthfully.” He had declared to Maglor one evening, whilst his foster Atar finished braiding Elrond’s dark hair for that night’s feast, setting upon it his customary circlet of silver. Had his true Adar ever braided his hair for him? Elrond did not recall such a moment. 

“I do not know what you mean.” Was the only response given, the ebony haired ellon refusing to meet Elrond’s gaze- as had been his wont for days now.

“You do. You can not hide from me in such situations as this, Atar. You know it to be true. I am far too foresighted for that.” His tone held no edge of pride or boastfulness, merely the blunt airs of one who was speaking honestly. 

“Elrond...we will discuss this later.” Maglor replied at length. Elrond resisted the urge to ball his fists in frustration. 

_He knows I do not like to be held at arm's length, and he does so anyway._ Elrond felt irrational tears of resentment forming in his eyes. Hastily, he turned his back on his carer.

“Fine. I do not care very much anyway.” He rubbed away the treacherous tears that threatened to fall upon his cheek. He had almost come to his age of maturity, why was he standing there sobbing like a young maiden? Angry at Maglor and angry at himself, he departed stormily from his chamber; circlet be damned. 

  
  


oooooooooo

  
  


The feasting had been pleasant enough, save for the uncomfortable feeling of dread that had settled itself within Elrond’s stomach. He had hardly eaten a morsel of his food, as his overindulging brother had been quick to make known to the rest of the high table. (Elrond truly believed that his twin bore a strong resemblance, where characteristics were concerned, to a rock. He was in no way attuned to the grave atmosphere that had surrounded them for the last week, and would sleep through all of Arda being remade if given the chance.) 

Maglor had arched an eyebrow in his direction then, but said nothing; no doubt in remembrance of earlier events. Elrond glanced down at his plate darkly, making a point of shoving some peas into his mouth, but even they made him feel nauseous and he did not care to eat anything more. He saw out of the corner of his eye his foster Father’s gaze still upon him, searching his face for a moment before returning to his own meal and conversation. Elrond felt a strange sense of relief washing over him, though he could not comprehend why. 

_It is he who should be scrutinised, not I. It is his kept secrets that are making everything feel so wrong._

Once the banquet was drawing to a close, the residents of Amon Ereb gradually departing for the night, Elrond had stood abruptly from his seat with the intention to make for the undisturbed quiet of the fortress’ library; he was in no mood to listen to the bard playing a harp in the corner. A firm hand upon his forearm had held him back from his plan, and a startled turn to his side revealed to him that it was not Maglor but Maedhros who had prevented his leaving, his face as ever impassive.

“Wait.” He implored Elrond “We have not yet begun the most important discussion of the night. I believe you have been wanting to hear this for some time now.”

It was not a question; rather a statement. Elrond glared at Maglor, who was watching him intently; was it merely the way the candle-light was upon his face, or could Elrond see his own nervousness reflected in those pewter eyes? He sunk down into his seat, hands trembling slightly with anticipation. Maedhros cleared his throat.

“It has come to my attention that the two of you shall soon be coming to the age of your maturity. I have for long now been considering the nature of your stay with us as hostages, and after consulting my brother,”

Elrond did not miss the look of repentance that crossed Maglor’s face at these words, his eyes seemingly determined not to meet Elrond’s own,

“I have decided that it is no longer in any of our best interests for you to remain here, in our company. You are, of course, aware of the war that is being waged outside of our borders between the Valar and Morgoth.”

A slight pause, in which Elrond and his brother nodded in affirmation of their understanding. Elrond felt as though his mind was reeling from the words their ‘captor’- who ceased to be such in Elrond’s heart long ago- had just spoken. It seemed as though his darkest of thoughts had been confirmed as true. 

_They do not care for us at all then. Pity does not make for love, though in my orphaned heart the difference between the two must have become faded. No more._

“Well then you should know that a time is coming to us where all shall have to join the combat. I do not want the two of you anywhere near us when that time comes. In short, we are sending you to the Isle of Balar, where you shall come under the protection of the young High King there. The arrangements have already been made. You should pack your things swiftly.” The red-headed Lord leaned back in his chair as his speech came to a close, watching Elrond and his brother closely as though to gauge their reactions. 

Elrond stared solely at Maglor in utter disbelief. Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been this. Hurt at being turned away so abruptly was swiftly replaced by indignation. His voice wavered tremulously with anger as he spoke.

“You stole us away from our Naneth and our home, against our will. You drew us in with obviously false assurances of affection- you had us name you Atar, knowing that we had long grieved the loss of our own father! For what purpose, Maglor; to be rid of us when you decided that it suited you? What sort of…” He was truly at a loss for words, tears now running freely down the length of his cheeks.

_You had my love, Atar. You had it and now you have forsaken it. I mattered not to you; this much I now know. I should not have believed it when you told me that I in turn was cherished by you._

“That is enough, Elrond. My brother was generous to give to you both his affection, though you were and are still his captives. Be grateful for the care he has shown you, and move on.” Maedhros’ face remained stoic as he waved them out of the room in dismissal- his brother still staring fixedly at his cutlery- and yet there was a faint flicker of emotion in his eyes that could have been mistaken for sympathy, and Elrond felt only further ill at ease for it.

_Was this your choice then, Atar? Had it been you who had suggested our leaving forever; your brother merely posing it as his own decision to save you from hurt? You shy away from the burden of your remorse, but for my brother and I there is no escape. We shall be sundered from you against our will, without say in the matter, though we are by now knowledgeable enough to decide our own fates._

ooooooooo

The wind felt harsh upon Elrond’s face that morning, though he was sure that it was not any more severe than it was in regular times at Amon Ereb. He remembered how he had shivered when he first arrived at the Fëanorian fortress, unused to such bitter conditions in comparison to the warmth of Sirion. He relished in such conditions now, enjoying far too much the numbing sensation that had come over his body as it adjusted to the cold. It was almost comforting, in contrast to the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, which he had tried in vain all that week to bury deep within himself. He could not change what was to happen, so why embarrass himself with tears and refusals. 

_I will not weep for what is lost to me, when I will not be considered a great loss myself._

“Elrond” He heard the melodious voice of his Atar- no, captor- penetrate the howl of the winds about the parapet. Elrond did not even tilt his head in acknowledgement as the ebony-haired Noldor drew closer, pulling his cloak tighter about him to protect himself from the bitter cold that Elrond had gladly succumbed too. 

“What are you doing out here? You should come back to the fire, where it is warm. The journey shall be long and arduous for you.” He felt Maglor’s silvery gaze upon him once more, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“I would not experience such a view from there. Nor will I in Balar.” Elrond kept his eyeline resolutely upon the view from without, watching as an eagle soared further away from him, far over the pine forest that surrounded the hilly structure of old. He felt the strong desire to himself grow wings and fly away beside it.

“And yet you will experience things much greater and more wondrous in Balar, far beyond my comprehension. You will enjoy it there, Elrond. I would that you find happiness in this arrangement, yonya.” the Eldar lent over the edge of the parapet wall, his position mimicking Elrond’s own. They stood in this fashion for several minutes, Elrond too absorbed in his own thoughts to put into words the strength of his feelings. 

_To tell you how dearly I wish to stay. To express what my love alone clearly could not._

Atlength, Elrond felt Maglor’s hand come to rest upon his shoulder. When he turned to meet his Atar’s gaze, he found the eyes that met his own rimmed with unshed tears.

“You must understand me, Elrond, yonya. It was never my intention to be cruel to you, as I am sure that you feel I have been. I may have taken you from your home for reasons of my own, yes, but I would have you realise that I part with you now out of a desire to keep you safe. And safe you shall be, in Balar.”

Elrond felt his own eyes begin to burn as hot tears blurred his vision. He wiped them away furiously.

“It is not safety that I have yearned for, Atar. When I was younger...you were there for me and my brother in a way that our own Father never was. It was you who taught me how to tune a harp, and it was by your own hand atop mine that I learned to form my letters. In imitation of your own tongue did I learn to speak Quenya, our accents as two of the same. Even my mother gave us away to tutors, young though we were. I have learned from your lessons the art of the sword as well as the importance of being kind, and forgiving, and loving. All of these things I have done seeking no one's approval but your own. You surely know that I would prefer to fight the armies of Morgoth under your banner than to be left to the mercy of strangers on an Isle I have never seen. Must you then send us away?”

Elrond’s tears fell without restraint, dripping down his nose and wetting his upper lip. His loving Atar moved to embrace him, and he could feel the familiar sensation of a kiss being planted endearingly atop his forehead, speaking to him when words failed.

_Though I part ways with you now, the only Atar I have ever known, my love for you does not cease upon this final meeting. I shall remember you when everyone else forgets. Your harp I shall carry with me, until we meet upon the shores in the years that have not yet come to pass. Children of my own I shall have then, and stories in plenty they shall here of my time spent here with you. Until then, Atar, farewell._


	3. Chapter 3

Elrond did not enjoy greeting his brother on the shores, on the rare occasion he had time enough spare to make the voyage to Numenor. It was not that he was not allowed; certainly, he was permitted to visit his Brother almost every time that he made such a request to the High King. He knew well enough why too, everyone did; though that did not stop him from feigning ignorance whenever someone patted his shoulder knowingly or turned up their eyebrows at him in a show of concerned sympathy.

His brother was dying, and not even Elrond’s healing powers could cease the withering of time that his twin’s body had succumbed to. This was what pained Elrond the most; the slow-going nature of mortality that forced him to watch as his brother faltered, knowing that he was utterly incapable of preventing what was doomed to occur. He despised those first moments of their meetings, as his perceptive mind working against his will to make note of every change that had come over his dearest brother- the last person to whom he truly bestowed the name of family.

These days, Elrond would weep both before and after their meetings. Tears would well in his eyes whilst his servant plaited his dark hair, long and healthy even as it was in his youth. He would always do this sitting in front of the mirror, staring at his own reflection which would always be as it was now- never to grow old or decay. He was immortal, named amongst the Eldar. It would always be so. Another tear, wettening an already damp cheek as he watched it move down his mirrored face with an intense fascination. Eventually, after he had watched it travel the length of his face and come to rest on the edge of his jawline, he brought the back of his thin hand to his face and wiped the tear away with his forefinger. He was cold even to his own touch.

No, Elrond could not perish as a mortal could. That did not mean he could not fade.

_It does not matter what fate I succumb to, for none will bring me closer to those whom I wish to find once more. What healing art have I learnt that could now quell the aching of my heart when the only remedies I have ever known are sundered from me?_

He clutched at the desk underneath him for support as he stood. Breathing deeply and methodically, he crossed the room and acquired his cloak from where it lay on the bed that took center place in his chamber of scrolls and herbs. He would shed his tears before and after he met his ageing twin, but never would he do so during. For in his heart, his sorrow was quietened by a desperate promise he had made within himself long ago to cherish these last few moments he had with his brother. He would make certain that he was attentive to _every_ small detail: every smile his brother gave him, every word that was uttered to him, longily grasped at and locked away within Elrond’s age-long memory. Later, after he had brushed his hair and sobbed in front of his mirror, Elrond would reminisce on these memories made only mere hours ago; all of the words that were exchanged written onto parchment by his trembling hands, every one of his brother’s wrinkled grins materialised by the thin lines of his pencil as he tried to recall his lessons in drawing from so long ago, by another whom his eyes would also never behold again....

No artworks nor writings could he make of their last meeting. There was no one to hear them to do it for him either, no one to remember every moment when Elrond’s own mind, dazed by his despair, could not. He had not meant to weep during the encounter, and seeing his grief reflected in the eyes of his brother had only served to deepen his sorrow. His knees had threatened to give out as he watched his brother board the fine vessel that would soon take his closest of family from him forever, until he could no longer bear it and had clung to Elros selfishly; desperate as he was for just one more moment as the two of them together when soon it would be just he, and he alone. The choice of the Peredhil had seemed to Elrond then the most unfair thing ever to be created within Arda, and he had not been supportive or strong but instead had cried like he had as a child, leaving his foster father forever.

He did not realise when the ship sailed over the horizon line and out of sight. Upon finding it gone, when at last his eyes had cleared from the tears that had not ceased their falling, he had sunk to his knees in the sand and could do nothing but stare out to sea in distraught bewilderment. He had not expected for his twin to be gone so suddenly; for he was indeed gone from him forever- this much Elrond knew.

He was Elrond the HalfElven, and foresighted was he- he who had chosen the path of the Eldar. Only now did Elrond truly understand what this decision meant.

_My dearest twin brother, farewell. Never again shall I experience joy without bitterness, for there is no joy that would be better than a joy spent with you. Sundered are our fates, for though we are Half-Elven, my path has bore me to the Eldar and to immortality. I chose as I did to learn and to heal, but there is no book of lore that I have read which could have prepared me for such an existence without you, nor is there a healing art that could now save what is lost to me._

Two ages later, when Elrond found his wife to be pregnant with twins herself, he had wept silent tears as every carefully reserved memory had risen to the surface. He would love his children and in turn be loved, he had resolved then; he would not allow them to be sundered from him. 

Yet from the moment they had been born to the day that they had parted from him at the end of the Third Age, Elrond had never been able to force anything upon his beloved children. As long as they were happy. Even if it meant parting from them in that same manner.


	4. Chapter 4

Elrond’s hands were cold. Would it always be so now? Strange, that he felt thus when Orodruin of ash and fire where all things fell to ruin was so close. Gritting his teeth, he stood on weakened legs that seemed to be no longer orientated with the rest of his body. There was something buried within his thigh, his dazed mind could comprehend distantly. The lethargic waves of some foul poison were already rolling through his exhausted body, turning his eyelids to lead and his limbs to weights. There was a bitter taste upon his tongue of blood and he could hear it throbbing against his ears, but he cared not. All was for naught; his King was dead.

“Elrond.” Strong arms caught him as he stumbled. The firmness of the touch was familiar to him, but it could not be so. The one who had held him thus before, wounded and weakened, was gone. This was not Imladris, where all things grew and flourished under his gentle care. He was not the Lord of these foul lands. He yearned for home; for peace and for comfort and for all that he had been denied for so very long.

“Come with me now, child.” Elrond’s mind protested the use of such a term in regards to himself; he had long ago come to his maturity and he would take all of the responsibility for letting his closest of friends perish. Yet he did not argue, for he knew that if he opened his mouth the tears would come and he would _not_ weep over his losses again. 

The arms had shifted now: one hand upon his shoulder, supporting his back and the other upon his elbow. Irate, he tried to rid himself of the touch- he did not need to be shown what to do like a babe learning from its mother! He fell forward once more, yet this time the other was too late to catch him, and he drew in on himself upon the barren ground, moaning in pain. Feeling the same overwhelming fear that had clutched at him when he was naught but a child in Sirion, Elrond lay still and awaited his naneth’s return. She did not come.

“Elrond, please. Look at me.” The tone was commanding and distantly familiar but Elrond’s devastated mind struggled to place the fatherly voice which had never before failed to bring him comfort. Hesitantly, his grey eyes brimmed with tears locked with Círdan’s own.

“Come. All will be well.” The voice sounded so certain but Elrond did not believe his guardian for one moment. How could such words be true? His naneth had told him similarly, before she had fallen into the sea. Nothing was all right then, nor would it be now.

Elrond did not reply to this naivety with the knowledge he had found on the battlefields of sorrow and despair, he could not; the arrow had met its mark and the damage it had wrought was taking its toll on Elrond’s already overly taxed body. Without complaint he allowed himself to be led or carried; his ever waning mind could not be sure which, until he was laying on a bed of linen and a finger was tapping on his face. He did not remember when his eyes had drifted closed, but he could not open them. His exhaustion and grief held too much sway over him. He reached to brush away Círdan’s finger but his strength was ebbing away and the feeble attempt was no match for the seemingly healthy older elf. 

“No, Elrond. You need to open your eyes now, or I fear you never will.” The finger underneath his eyelid resumed it’s light tapping, as the other elf assisted Elrond in finding the strength to open his wearied eyes. Slowly, they fluttered open.

The canvas of the tent was white, giving Elrond nothing to focus on aside from the face of the fatherly figure beside him. The eyes that met him mirrored his own sorrow, and a distant part of Elrond wondered how the other elf could bear to meet his gaze when all he would see were the deep lakes of anguish unyielding that Elrond was sure his eyes reflected. Not trusting his tongue to speak, he moaned to convey to Círdan the injury that he suddenly felt should not have gone ignored for so long. The pain was unceasing and bode ill for him as a companion to the tumultuous storm of grief that had utterly vanquished his usually calm demeanour.

“It hurts, I know. The healer is coming. You must lay still so as to not aggravate the wound now, lest you wish to return to Imladris limping.”

If at first he had been confused whether his guardian was referring to his wound or his despair, the latter part of the sentence banished Elrond’s confusion. There was no healer who could quell the longing that gripped him; to see his King, alive and well, come rushing through the tent doors. It would never be so. The clouds broke and a bitter rain lashed down upon them. Elrond listened to the harsh music of the pouring, his eyes following a lone raindrop as it trailed down the side of the canvas roof. He felt the same wet droplet course down the length of his cheek until Círdan brought a thumb to his face and stroked it away. No more tears followed, but the older elf did not cease his light caressing of Elrond’s face, brushing strands of twilight-shadow hair from his eyes and tucking them behind his ears as he did so. They spoke no more words to one another, not even when the healer came to tend to Elrond’s wound, but every time Elrond closed his eyes he would feel once more the gentle tapping of his caretaker’s forefinger as the older elf desperately tried to keep him from the unconscious world that he longed to succumb to.

oooooooooo

The funeral was a small affair, with only those closest to the King in attendance before the body was borne away to its final resting place. Elrond had not spoken at the unornamented ceremony- held on the battlefields, for though the Edain had been quick to depart, Elrond and his people had remained to tend their wounded properly before making a departure- yet now that the service had ended he fell to his knees in front of the body of his King. He could no longer stem the flow of his tears as he bent his head and whispered one final farewell to his friend, though he knew only the wind listened to his mourning. Once he had been given some time alone and his head had raised once more to the present, Elrond felt a light touch upon his upper arm; an offer of help if he were in need of it. Though his wounds had not been terribly deep, Elrond still found himself in need of the support of a walking stick, as he hurried about the tents of the more gravely wounded to aid those who called out for his healing touch. At present, weary and deeply upset he took the proffered arm, leaning heavily on his helper- Glorfindel, his tired mind noted- as he was guided not to the tents of healing but instead to his personal abode. Elrond raised an eyebrow at his comrade.

“You are exhausted and grieving, mellon nîn. It would be best for you to rest now.” The warrior eased Elrond into a cushioned chair set in front of a finely crafted willow desk. Elrond watched through fatigued eyelids as his friend moved a stool from outside of the doorway and placed it in front of the Standard Bearer. A deep sigh escaped his lips but he accepted the explanation given without complaint. He was too tired for such a taxing exertion as arguing.

“Will you not leave me to my rest then?” He did not mean for his tone to come across as curt, but it sounded so anyway. When had he allowed his serenity to slip away? The wintry sea of his emotions was threatening to drown Elrond and he had long since lost sight of the docks.

“Will you not share your burden with a companion?”

“I do not know that you could take it.” Elrond sensed his friend’s hurt at his words, but he could not bring himself to feel as sorry as he knew he should. He had become so very weary...

“Mellon nîn, please.” Glorfindel did not revoke him, but spoke softly and with a quiet pleading that made Elrond bow his head in sudden shame. 

“Forgive me. I do not know what has come over me these last few days. I feel as though I am in one of my foresighted dreams, yet the burden of it not being so is upon my shoulders. I wish only to be alone.”

No, that was not all that Elrond wished for. He fervently desired for everything to return to how it once was. He wanted to be laughingly indulging in a late luncheon with his King, upon a secluded hilltop that only they knew of. He wanted his brother’s elbow to be touching his as they sat side-by-side, weaving the stems of wildflowers together into finely made crowns that they would present to their foster-father later on. All of this he yearned for and all of it he could not have ever again. A tear ran down his cheek and watered an almost unnoticeable patch of grass at his feet, where somehow a lone daisy had been allowed to grow. Taking it between his fingers, Elrond fiddled with the narrow stem, making a slit with his fingernails at the top and threading the end of the flower through it. He slid his new ring upon his middle finger- the same finger which bore the ring of sapphire, Vilya- and contemplated the little flower circlet in relation to the piece of jewellery it sat above.

When Elrond finally looked up from his thoughts, he was alone once more.

  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

His heart had been waylaid alongside her.

Supposedly, he was both foresighted and wise. Upon the surface of thawing lakes he saw the future with more assurance than any other; the wind whispered to his ears alone tales of woe from afar before any councillor could. ‘Twas as truth amongst the elven kindreds, his eyes of grey surely held more knowledge and foreboding than the thin mist which encased their depths ever alluded to.

Such a thought seemed almost laughable, now. Indeed it was more of a bitter chortle, one which would escape Elrond’s lips between the moans of pain which accompanied the reminiscence of his folly and the angry lashing of the wall as he beat his fist against the hardened stone in utter frustration. The irony did not escape his perceptive mind; he was more prophetic than any of the Eldar who still dwelt in Middle-Earth, yet he had not known to look for the orcs nor their torturous mannerisms when he had seen his dearest Wife off on that fateful day. Warmth alone had adorned his smile as he bid her farewell.

It was a bitter realisation, but one he would atone for nonetheless. For knowledge did not depart from him when he wished for it not, seemingly; he knew what was to come hence as surely as he did his own grief. He would bid her farewell once more, with tears rimming his eyes and age-long loneliness upon his mind, lining his every feature. This he had foreseen.

His hair would be veiled from the starlight, as pitch-dark and wholly without brightness as the skies before the coming of twilight. Though the night would eventually pass, it would be long before his sorrowed mind acknowledged it. He was the son of a star, and he was waning.

He would slip an arm about her waist and gently guide her towards the awaiting vessel, ever the healer. His heart would crumple from within his chest and his legs threaten to buckle from underneath him but he would remain outwardly stoic, falling into the mask of impassiveness that he had so carefully wrought. His lips would meet those of his beloved, but no vigorous love would flourish there as it once did, long ago. There was naught but salt in the taste, Elrond mused.

He would watch as his wife was carried away by the wind, just as Sirion had been. It had smelt of salt then, too.

Naught but one tear would he weep as he stood at the quayside, hand raised in a gesture of farewell as shadowy hair lashed against his grief-stricken face, forming angry red bruises upon his lined cheeks. Tenderly, he would engrave her name upon the forefront of his mind; by then merely one of an inventory of names to whom his love had been given in ardency, before being wrenched away. 

ooooooooo

With both care and bitterness he closed the door upon her resting form, slender fingers resting upon the doorway. Pressing his hand to his lips and then to the door he departed from her with one final promise.

That on a day not yet passed, by his hand that door would open again.

**Author's Note:**

> The title "Ah im, u-'erin veleth lin?" is translated to "Do I not also have your love?" as spoken by Elrond in the LotR film verse.  
> Adar- Father  
> Naneth- Mother  
> Ithil- Moon  
> Ellon- elf  
> Peredhil- the name given to the Half-Elven.  
> Atar- Father (in Quenya)  
> Yonya- son (in Quenya)  
> My poor Elrond deserves so much better.


End file.
